


Dearly Departed, We Wish You Grace.

by oldtimeyryan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock isn't really in it, Sherlock's Funeral
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 15:06:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldtimeyryan/pseuds/oldtimeyryan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is dead, and now we are burying him. I'm not ready for this to happen, I'm not. Sherlock can come back, and he will, so we can't bury him now... Please, don't finalise this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dearly Departed, We Wish You Grace.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this is August, and I'm only just posting it here from my deviantArt account which I no longer use. So any facts about Sherlock's age we learnt with the release of the casebook are not a factor in here.
> 
> I did make up Sherlock's middle names, and birthdate. Sorry if they seem wrong to anyone.
> 
> Also, I tried to make this as realistic and in character as possible. In fact, I lost someone very dear to me and I had attended their funeral the day I wrote and completed this story. If anything seems off, apart from what I stated above, don't hesitate to let me know. I wasn't exactly in the right frame of writing mind.
> 
> Now enjoy!

Today was the day. It had been a week. One fucking week. One week without body parts in the fridge, one week without gunshots in the wall, one week without Sherlock.

_This phone call… It's my note…_

John Watson sat in Sherlock's chair. It still smelt like him. The whole flat smelt like him. Nothing changes. Well, everything has. Sherlock Holmes was dead. John failed his duty as a friend. As a best friend.

F _riends protect people…_

Today was Sherlock's funeral. John had protested about going. He didn't want to keep reliving the memory of Sherlock falling. He didn't want to have Sherlock's death-- _suicide_ \-- made final. Once that casket was in the ground, there would be no hope left to hang onto. Once that casket was in the ground, Sherlock will be completely gone.

_It's what people do, don't they…?_

"John, sweetheart…" Mrs. Hudson's voice was right next to his ear. John flinched a little and turned to the landlady. Her face was filled with sorrow, and tears were already in her eyes. She was probably one of the most affected by Sherlock's death besides John and Mycroft, if the posh fucking git ever showed emotions. Just like his fucking insufferable dick of a brother.

"John, it's… It's time." "I don't-" John's words died on his lips as his voice broke. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I don't want to go, Mrs. Hudson… This is something I don't want to see…" The old woman's face just got even sadder, as she took one of his hands in both of hers. They were both fighting the urge to cry at this very moment. Enough tears had been shed on Sherlock bloody Holmes' behalf; these ones could wait until the funeral. "He was your best friend, John, and it's time… I-It's time to say goodbye…" Her voice was soft and it ended in a sob.

_Leave a note?_

"I-" John gave up on protesting. No one listened. No one really has since Sherlock's fall. Besides, he already looked like a bloody tit in his mourning get-up. Slowly, he heaved himself to his feet. Mrs. Hudson was still holding his hand. "

Will you need your cane…?" she asked, her voice still soft. John shook his head and set his lips into a grim, straight line. He was a soldier, a fighter. He was doctor who has seen death in all his forms. He did not need his cane. The old woman's fingers tightened around John's hand as they descended down the stairs. John had thought of walking down these very stairs and leaving 221B for good, and hopefully all the memories of Sherlock for good. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. He couldn't be alone again. Not again.

_Alone is what I have. Alone protects me._

There was a sleek black car waiting on the street in front of them. It still felt unnatural, leaving the doorstep of his their home in a car, not a smelly London issue cab. If he could, he'd choose those cabs any day. They got in together. There was no Anthea tapping away on her Blackberry, coldly ignoring the world. There was no Mycroft, sporting an umbrella and a dark humoured smirk. There was just their driver, who mutely handed Mrs. Hudson a bouquet of flowers. They were roses, white and red. Roses symbolised eternal love, which was what Sherlock would take with him when he moved on. Eternal love from the ones he left alone.

Mrs. Hudson tried to make some conversation with John, but he was impassive. The only show of emotion he had was the wetness in his eyes. He was trying to be strong, trying so hard to be strong in the eyes of the public.

_People will talk._

They met up with the procession of cars. There were five of them in total, moving through London to Sherlock's final resting place. The service would be held on the cemetery grounds, before he would be buried in a reserved lot. John had made all of the plans, ignoring advice from everyone around him. He wouldn't even allow Sherlock's family to do it. This was his job, as a result of his own _fucking_ failure. This was for Sherlock.

_Please, will you do this for me?_

The drive was still quiet. Even parking on the grey gravel outside the funeral home was quiet. It seemed like the whole world was mourning, having their minute of silence for a fallen hero. And Sherlock was a hero, no matter how much he had denied it. Robotically, John got out of the car, and then his hands were in Mrs. Hudson's again. The mourners moved into the room, where a large blackwood coffin lay. There was a single blood red rose lying on top, and one of its petals had fallen. Seeing the coffin set this into a worse perspective for John. He sat in the front row, closest to the coffin. Next to him was Mrs. Hudson, who's gaze was everywhere but the object in front of her. On the same row was Mycroft, whose face was cold and emotionless, but it was just a mask. If anyone wanted to look, they would see the tears that lay there. Next to him was who appeared to be his mother, whose vanilla blonde hair was in a tight bun and half of her face was obscured from views by a black mourning veil. There were black stained tears running down her aging skin, and in her hands she tightly held the same bouquet that Mrs. Hudson held and a black lace handkerchief. Her eldest son's hand was comfortingly on her forearm. Around the room, there were more and more recognizable faces in the sea of grief. Lestrade sat in the row across from them; in his hands he held the service booklet and one white rose. To the mild surprise of John, Anderson and Donovan sat further back. Sally was already crying, her face twisted in pain. Anderson didn't look smug or happy. He looked equally as upset as the crying woman next to him. Henry Knight was there, holding his own flower and a heavy heart. He had liked Sherlock, and it pained him to see that he was here now just after he had put a stop to his own suicide attempt. Standing at the very back was Irene Adler. John was not surprised by that. He knew that she had to have been alive, out there, somewhere. Her face showed nothing, her only sign of grief was the way she held the rose bouquet. Molly was sitting next to Lestrade, sobbing quietly into her hands. Lestrade's hand was rubbing circles on her back, and he was staring at the floor. Around the room, seats filled. Soon, John couldn't recognize any of the people who walked through that door. They seemed to be the general London public. And all of them were crying. Soft music played in the background, and John instantly knew it was one of Sherlock's compositions.

_I can't come down so we'll just have to do it like this._

An elderly man, who gave the introduction sounded uninterested and emotionless. John had a single thought at that moment: _It's like Sherlock chose this guys himself. He's exactly like him._

"Ladies and gentlemen, if you would like to stand for the song Amazing Grace in memory of Sherlock Holmes," As the man sat down, the mourners stood. John's fingers are intertwined with Mrs. Hudson, who is now singing through tears. Around him, the people are singing like it will bring Sherlock back. John knows that the Holmes' are not a religious family, but this song seemed fitting for this amazing man's funeral. He sung too, his voice shaking and his emotions barely kept at bay. He focused on the wall above Sherlock's casket, knowing that if he looked, he wouldn't be able to keep it all held in. The small room only felt alive now, with almost a hundred voices filling its walls with song. Many tears were being shed, and not all of them were from the women. The only men John could see that were still holding them in were Mycroft and Lestrade.

_I can stop John Watson._

When the song ended, and everyone sat, Mycroft and his mother walked up to the wooden podium near the casket. Mycroft stood in front of the microphone, and in a watery and shaky voice, he began to speak.

"My brother was an amazing, intelligent man," he began, his hands gripping the sides of the podium so tightly his knuckles started going white. "And throughout his… Short life, he showed the people around him that he was exactly that.

"Sherlock Conan Valentine Holmes was born on the 3rd of September 1977. Frankly, when he was born, it made me the happiest child in the world, and as annoying and insufferable as he was, I loved him. I… I still do.

"Sherlock started playing the violin by accident. It was the Christmas holidays and my brother and I had come home. Sherlock was trying to find a cure for his endless boredom seeing as he had aced all of his classes and had nothing to occupy that genius mind. He had ventured into our parent's bedroom and found the headboard was loose and our mother's harp sitting by the window. He created his own violin and he was simply magnificent. Of course, as a jealous older brother, I destroyed it. But the talent was there, and he started lessons when we started school again," Mycroft looked around the room before his eyes rested on the casket. He then closed his eyes, made a noise between a sob and breath and continued.

"In a way, I killed my little brother. I was always trying to protect him and I released the one who destroyed him. James Moriarty may have planted the idea in my brother's head, long after the ideals of suicide through drug abuse had been diminished, but I was the one who executed it. And I am forever sorry." He moved back so Mrs. Holmes could speak.

"My son, Sherlock," she said, her voice drowning in her anguish and tears. "Was an angel, a hero, and an asshole," The crowd gave a sad laugh. John's lower lip was trembling a little and he was now looking at his knees.

_Don't make people into heros, John. Hero's don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them._

"And he did not deserve this. He was only telling me about five months ago that he was becoming a changed man, and that he had a reason to stay that way. He went into great detail about Doctor John Watson and their escapades."

_Why would you listen to me? I'm only your friend._

_I don't have **friends.**_

_…I wonder why._

"I truly believed that Sherlock was going to change, become a happier man. Now I believe that he is happier somewhere else, away from the pain and the addictions. I love you, my son. I will always believe…" Her voice gave way and she began to cry harder. At that moment, John lifted his gaze to meet Mycroft's. And so help Christ Almighty, Mycroft Holmes was crying. Together, they walked back to their seat and Lestrade took their spot. He hadn't shed a visible tear, but he sure as fucking well sounded close to it.

"In the five years I knew Sherlock, I had seen many sides of him. The cold side, the intelligent side, the, um, well, dickish side and then there was the side I liked the most, the warm side. I had seen him progress through life-changing experiences, especially his um… Experimenting with drugs," he closed his eyes tightly as if trying to erase a memory. "Through to the whole Moriarty debacle… I thought he'd get through this too, but apparently this was too much of a strain on his life, on his heart. And if I had of believed him, he would still be here. Well, Sherlock, I fucking believe you now, and I hope you're happy that this is what you've reduced me to." He had started crying by now, his sobs deep in his throat. Pain tore through John's heart, but he still held his tears back. _A soldier. Soldiers are strong. They do not cry._ Lestrade placed his rose on the casket, left his hand on the head for a bit before going to his seat. Mrs. Hudson went up, leaving the bouquet behind.

"I loved Sherlock like a son," she said, her eyes focusing on John. "And I'm sure I wasn't the only one who loved him, and I know for a fact that I won't be the only one who will miss this man for the rest of my life. Rest in peace, Sherlock. And shoot at someone else's bloody walls now."

_Listen, what I said before, John. I meant it. I don't have friends. I've just got one._

Mrs. Hudson knew she had to keep it short, and she came back to sit. John was yet to do his speech, but he was later. The elderly man came back to the podium, and cleared his throat to get the attention back on him. There was sobbing around John, suffocating him, smothering him.

"If you have flowers, please feel free to place them on the casket." Music started playing then, and it was one of Bach's pieces. Heavy, deep emotion flowed through John was people progressed up the aisles, placing one or many flowers on top of the casket. Molly was supported up by Lestrade, and Donovan by Anderson. The general public put the most flowers on, so much that they started falling down the sides. The bouquets went last, but John refused to move. It wasn't his turn. He wasn't ready.

Once all the flowers were laid, and the music stopped, John knew he had to approach the podium. The world around him stopped, and he felt slow and sluggish. When he stood behind that podium, he choked up. It was expected. His best friend was lying dead next to him. So many things, all the things John wished he'd said ran through his head as one jumbled mush. Then that was it. The tears he didn't want to show fell and he bowed his head down. The tears fell onto the light brown wood, and slid to the eaves. He sobbed out five discernible words for the crowd to hear.

"He… Was my best friend…"

He squeezed his eyes closed and took a deep shaky breath. When they opened, he walked to the head of the casket, and faced right where Sherlock's ear would be. In a voice lower then a whisper he spoke, his hands on the wood, stroking it lightly. "I… I love you, Sherlock… Okay, you fucking selfish tit, I love you…" he sobbed softly before he returned to his seat. All eyes were on him but he couldn't see. Sherlock was leaving him for good now. He had to move on.

The six men, not including John because he didn't want to risk limping the casket out, came and lifted it. As they walked, a small chant started, which made John's heart swell, burst and the tears to continue.

_We believe in Sherlock Holmes._

_We believe in Sherlock Holmes._

_We. Believe in. Sherlock Holmes._

That chant followed the casket out of the room, and down to Sherlock's burial. As his casket disappeared from view, the chants got louder, and Sherlock's friends joined. Everyone joined, except John. He believed. He always believed, from the very beginning.

_I can stop John Watson. Stop his heart._

                                                                                                                                                        *

"Um. Hm. You… you told me once that you weren't a hero. Um. There were time that I didn't even think you were human. But let me tell you this, you were the best man and the most human… human being that I have ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. And so… there. I was… So alone… And I owe you so much," John went to walk away from the headstone, and follow Mrs. Hudson. He wanted to keep saying what he couldn't to Ella at his past appointment, but people will talk. So he continued. Sherlock was fucking dead; they could talk all they liked. "Please, there's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be… dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it, stop this…" _I love you. I need you. Please, I don't want to be in this alone, not a-fucking-gain. Please, Sherlock._ John walked away, pain in his chest and his leg. Saying he would move on was one thing, actually doing it was a completely different fucking story.

In the shadows of the trees, John Hamish Watson got his wish.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by my fabulous writer friends from school, Shannon and Mikey. If it wasn't for them, this story wouldn't have been born.


End file.
